You Give Me Your Armor (And You Can Have My Heart)
by sailormade
Summary: Ash's brows furrowed. "You know, if you used your downtime to train a little more instead of chasing tail, your body probably wouldn't look like a damn roadmap and you wouldn't need someone to come running to the rescue. Hayes not give you a vest to wear? That. . . looks nasty, kid. Real nasty." / Whumptober Oneshot. Prompts: 15. Scars & 25. Humiliation.


**A/N:** I'm going to be doing a few Whumptober oneshots! Don't worry, they're going to be relatively short & I'm only gonna write a couple a week. I think a few of these freewriting sessions will help with this writing funk I'm in. It's not a block—just a funk, lol.

Whumptober 2019.  
Prompts Used: 15. Scars & 25. Humiliation.

* * *

Clay answered the door with a towel slung around his hips and a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth. He didn't think too much about his state of undress as he walked to his front door; He figured that it was Sonny doing the relentless, obnoxious knocking. They had plans to go on a soft-sand beach run around noon.

It'd been about five months since the partial evisceration, since Trent showed Clay how to hold his own internal organs in his hands while Bravo Team rushed him to Exfil. Clay woke in the deathly still dead of night, sometimes, with tears stinging his eyes and a dizzying sense of foreboding pressing down on his chest, still able to feel his intestines sliding against his blood-wet hands as he tried to keep them in his body. He'd never felt closer to death, and like a ghost that particular feeling lingered. Haunted him. It crept up on him in the dark, and in the quiet, and when he looked in the mirror and saw the resulting scar that wrapped from his naval to his hip.

Clay felt more self-conscious of his scar than he cared to admit—scars littered his body, many of which he happened to be deeply proud of; Why did he hate this one so much? Why did it bring him such anxiety? He knew why, deep down. He just wasn't ready to confront the reasoning: The scar from his almost-evisceration was still too fresh and too real a reminder of what had almost been—that being, Bravo Team flying him home in a casket.

Not bothering to look through the peep hole, Clay swung the door open. He wasn't greeted by a big, boisterous grin from Sonny, as he'd expected to be, but instead by a tight-lipped smile from his father, Ash.

Clay sighed and reluctantly stepped back to let him in. "Ash."

"Clay." Ash replied.

He strolled inside too comfortably for Clay's liking, and while Clay shut the door he quietly braced for the impact that he knew was coming; His father's presence had never been a precursor to anything good, and Clay knew that wasn't about to change. He turned around, holding his towel tight around his hips, and Ash whistled.

"Jesus, son," Ash said. "I'd heard that you got tagged, but I didn't think it was this bad. What the hell happened out there?"

His words were a slap to the face. Clay blinked, taken aback. No "Hey, Son, how're you feeling?" or "Anything I can do to help?" Just immediate criticism. Clay wasn't sure why Ash's words caught him so off guard. It wasn't as though the criticism were anything new. Hell, an actual, physical slap in the face wouldn't be either.

"Shit happens," Clay said, unwilling to elaborate. "But Trent pulled me out of the fire. He always does."

Ash's brows furrowed. "You know, if you used your downtime to train a little more instead of chasing tail, your body probably wouldn't look like a damn roadmap and you wouldn't need someone to come running to the rescue. Hayes not give you a vest to wear? That. . . looks nasty, kid. Real nasty."

"I know,' Clay wanted to snap. Of course he knew that his scar looked nasty; It was huge, and still very raised and very red and very angry looking, and he had to look at it in the bathroom mirror every damn morning. _Maybe Ash had a point about his training, though. . ._ Ignoring the heat of embarrassment that burned in his cheeks, Clay narrowed his eyes. If his dirtbag, glory-hound of a father wanted to trash him, that was fine, but under no circumstance was Clay going to let Ash take a shot at Jason.

"We were all in plainclothes," Clay said, walking to the fridge. "None of us had vests on. Or any protective gear, for that matter. What happened to me was a freak thing. It shouldn't have happened, but it did, and in the end? I lived. End of story. And you know? For the record, Jay tore the tango that nailed me apart. Literally. Blew him into pink mist. So keep his damn name out of your mouth."

He grabbed a can of beer, set it on the table, opened the tab with one hand, and then took a long drink. The clock on the wall told Clay that it was little past ten thirty in the morning; He didn't care. If Ash were around, Clay needed the alcohol. Anything to take the edge off. An uncomfortable blend of grief and rage simmered under his skin, made him want to bolt out of the door and run until his lungs gave out. Ash needed to leave, but saying so would cause a fight that Clay didn't have the energy to deal with.

He took another drink.

Ash cleared his throat. "It's a little early to be hitting the booze, don't you think?"

Clay shrugged. "It's just one beer. And Sonny's drivin' today, anyway. Speaking of which, he'll be here soon and I'm still half naked so, just tell me what you need so I can get dressed."

"Why do you think I need something?"

Clay laughed wryly. "Because I know you, dad. So, what is it? Money? Some story to run your mouth about? What?"

A paradox. Clay itched to pick a fight, but he was too damn tired, and too damn wounded, to so much as put up his metaphorical fists. Mostly, Clay just wanted to sleep.

Ash scoffed. "What do you want me to say, son? Huh? What is that you want to hear from me?"

"Stop calling me son, for one. You lost your right to call me that when you threw me away."

"I **never** threw you away. I did the best that I could."

"The best— You dumped me on grandpa, who you'd only ever met twice, by the way, and walked out the door! And you never came back. What do you call that?"

Clay finished his beer. Ash stared at him, face twisted in anger. Clay wished that his father would hit him, just so that he could hit him back.

"I couldn't raise you by myself," Ash said. "I needed help, okay? I couldn't be a single dad and a SEAL both, and your batshit crazy mother—"

"You keep mom's name out of your fucking mouth."

"And your crazy mother! Would have killed you! She heard voices in her head! Do you not get that? She was crazy, Clay! She would. Have. Killed. You!"

"She was sick! She needed help!"

There were tears in Clay's eyes; He could feel them threatening to spill over. His mother wasn't great, but she tried. Goddammit, did she try. Despite being sick in the head, and despite being married to Ash Spenser, she tried as hard and did the very best that she could—right up until she put a gun in her mouth and pulled the trigger. In the end, that's what mattered the most to Clay: His mama tried. She tried to love him, and she tried to be good. And she was. She wasn't great by any stretch of the imagination, but she was good.

Ash never tried. He never lifted a fucking finger.

"And you know? So do you, Clay!" Ash yelled. "I swear to God, half the time you're just as batshit as she was! Look at you! You were almost gutted like a damn trout! And you know why? Because you're unfocused! And you have no discipline! You're still a damn child!"

Clay's lip wobbled, but he refused to cry. Not in front of Ash. Not in front of anyone. He'd die first. Eyes burning, throat tight, and cheeks hot with shame, Clay remained silent.

"I don't know why I bother trying with you," Ash continued, voice little more than a whisper; It was a sharp contrast to how loud he'd just been screaming. "You always want to bring a gun to a knife fight."

"Yeah, well," Clay managed. "I am a sniper."

Ash scoffed again and, without another word, walked out of the door. Clay didn't let himself dissolve into tears until he heard the door slam shut. In the deafening silence that followed, the feeling returned._ He'd never felt closer to death._


End file.
